


hard to be soft, tough to be tender

by nishtabel



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alpha Mercedes von Martritz, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, F/M, Knotting, Lactation, Mommy Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Nursing, Omega Sylvain Jose Gautier, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Sex Toys, Spanking, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:02:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26977795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishtabel/pseuds/nishtabel
Summary: “I won’t force you to do anything,” Mercedes says, catching his eye as she speaks, “and I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. But—I want to take care of you. Will you let me?”“What?” Sylvain blinks. Then: “What?”Mercedes smiles, and it’s sweet and warm and makes raspberries bloom against his tongue. His mouth waters. She says, “I’ll keep you safe, Sylvain.” His name feels like honey from her lips. “No strings attached, alright? No mating, no biting. I won’t do anything without your permission.”Again, Sylvain’s thoughts stall, sticking and catching on Mercedes’ implication. “You’re an alpha,” he says dumbly.Or: When Sylvain's heat begins unexpectedly, Mercedes offers to take care of him.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 10
Kudos: 100





	hard to be soft, tough to be tender

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GlitterGluwu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlitterGluwu/gifts).



> this fic is for the lovely [woocy](https://twitter.com/glittergluwu), who commissioned me to write this piece for her birthday. thank you so much for trusting me to write this idea of yours—i had so much fun with it!
> 
> additional shout out to [socks](https://twitter.com/cockships), who beta'd this piece in absolutely record time. you're the best!
> 
> **_NOTE:_ ** _because this is an a/b/o setting, i've written both mercedes and sylvain with intersex characteristics—both have a penis and a vagina, and both afab and amab terms are used._

Sylvain’s heat comes unexpectedly, halfway through the night and just before exams. He wakes in a cold sweat with tears on his face and his hand halfway down his pants, stroking clumsily at his cock, and he comes with a low groan against his belly. The dream had been a jumble of half-sensations, ghostly shivers and the curling of heat in his gut, and while it hadn’t been _much_ , it had been enough to agitate him.

He groans in frustration, peeling himself from the sheets. The sun peeks just above the horizon, sky a gentle pink, and he remembers his father’s adage with a wry smile: _Red in the morning, sailors take warning_. He wonders if he should be worried, but—with a glass of cold water and a wet rag on his face, his fever begins to settle. He has two more days, he thinks.

There’s not much to do about it either way; he’s expected in class by noon, and he had promised Annette the week before that he’d cover her kitchen shift. It was supposed to be a secret between the two of them, and he wonders dully why he agreed at all, but she’d just looked so _cute_ with flour all over her face and dress, how could he have denied her?

Class passes in a blur, his thoughts mostly focused but for the occasional awkward fluttering of his cunt. He excuses himself between lectures to clean himself, dry himself off, rub mint at his scent glands—he’s kept this secret long enough, and he’s careful to keep it close to his chest. He expertly avoids the professor’s attempts to keep him after class, dodging their requests for help in the stables, and he’s able to duck inside the cafeteria with little disturbance. He smiles at classmates as they trickle in, waves and winks at Annette and Felix and Ingrid, and he’s almost forgotten about the shaking of his knees and the growing pressure in his belly by the time the clock tower strikes ten.

Almost.

He excuses himself from the dining hall with little of his usual grace, hair plastered to the back of his neck with smoke and sweat. “Just the stove, ladies,” Sylvain explains, waving off their concerned expressions. “You know me—absolutely hopeless!” He leads their laughter with his breath caught in his throat, and by the time he steps into the cool night air, his pulse is audible in his ears.

He allows himself a moment’s rest, easing into the shadows and pressing his forehead against cold brick. His breathing comes harder, now, breath hot in his lungs, and his lips are dry and cracked where he licks them. He had planned on going to class tomorrow, but—there’s a headache starting behind his eyelids, throbbing at the base of his skull, and his underwear is soaked through with pre-slick.

His footsteps are heavy as he walks back to his room, trudging up stone stairs with his hand on the railing. He thinks: he’ll need to tell the professor tomorrow, sometime before class; he doesn’t trust himself to knock on their door now, uncertain of their status. Even with the herbs he’s rubbed on himself, the mint he’s chewed all day, he doesn’t trust that someone…well. That’s not a chance he’s willing to take.

Instead, he pulls his feverish body to the second floor of the dorms and fishes for his keys in his pockets, fingers clumsy and damp. He pulls the keys from his pocket before cursing when they slip from his sweaty fingers, crashing to the floor with a noise that’s far too loud. He swoops to grab them before anyone can open their door to see him, clutching them now between both hands with a flush on his face that’s only half embarrassment.

He’s unlocking his door when someone closeby says, “Oh, are you alright?”

Sylvain feels himself freeze, shoulders hunching as his knees lock. “Yes,” he says, in his best approximation of a natural, normal voice. It sounds weak to his ears, and he doesn’t say anything else.

There are footsteps behind him, and he wonders how he didn’t notice them before. Mind racing, he finally recognizes them as Mercedes’s, the soft soles of her black boots clicking against the stone floor. She doesn’t touch him, but he can feel her heat behind him, and his body quakes with yearning. “You look feverish,” Mercedes says, and Sylvain is horrified to find that her voice _smells_ good, wafting over him like lilacs and cherries. _Like angel food cake_ , his mind supplies, and then— _raspberries, jam, warm cream_. “Would you like me to help you get to your room?”

There’s enough of Sylvain’s rational mind left to say, “No thank you,” until he realizes that he’s been struggling against the lock of Dimitri’s door for the last several minutes. He yanks the key from the door, ashamed and horrified of his own actions, and he means to explain, but Mercedes cuts him off.

“No harm done,” she says, blissfully calm. Her own confidence bleeds into Sylvain’s, soothing his shame with little effort. When he turns to face her, she’s smiling a soft smile, hands clasped in front of her apron. “You must be tired after such a long day! Let’s get you back, alright?”

Sylvain feels himself nod before blurting, “Yes,” body moving towards her on instinct.

She leads him to the end of the hallway, graciously accepting his keys to unlock the door. It swings open without protest, and she motions him inside before following and shutting the door behind her. Placing the keys on his desk, she turns to Sylvain and says, “Who have you told about your heat?”

Sylvain’s mind goes blank for a single, agonizing moment. He collapses onto the bed with a sigh and says, “What heat?”

Mercedes smiles, and even though Sylvain knows it means he’s done something _wrong_ , it still makes him feel warm. “Please don’t lie to me, Sylvain,” she says, smoothing her skirts. She breaks eye contact to look around the room, looking for— _something_ , and when at last she opens her mouth to continue, she says, “Does Rhea know that you’re an omega?”

“I’m not,” Sylvain says, even as his body sways towards her. There’s sweat on his hairline, beading on his brow and collecting on his upper lip; his left leg bounces uncontrollably. He laughs a hollow laugh and says, “Why, is someone trying to sully my sterling reputation?”

Mercedes’s expression is unreadable, brows knit over soft eyes. “No,” she says. “Your heat gave you away.”

“I’m not in heat,” Sylvain lies quickly, unable to hold eye contact. Her eyes are so _blue_ , and each time he meets her gaze, he feels himself slip deeper into the clutches of his arousal. Already his cunt aches with emptiness, thighs pressed tightly together as he tries to hide the swelling of his little cock. “Just—you’re right, I must be feeling sick. Shouldn’t have had so much for dinner!”

“You hardly ate,” Mercedes says, and Sylvain realizes for the first time that she _knows_. Not just suspects, not merely _hoping_ , but—“I understand that you want to be subtle,” she says, “and I absolutely respect that. My younger brother, Emile, was much like you. If you’re worried that I’ll tell, I can promise you that I won’t.”

Sylvain stares at her, swallowing thickly around his tongue. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

Mercedes doesn’t sigh, but her nostrils do flare, and Sylvain feels both pride and shame curl hot in his belly. “I’m worried about you,” she says, ignoring him. “It’s incredibly dangerous to spend your heat alone, Sylvain—especially without Rhea or Seteth knowing.”

Sylvain scowls. “I’m not telling them,” he says.

“I know,” Mercedes says, “and I’m not here to suggest that you do. I know that you’re keeping this secret for a reason, Sylvain, and I respect that, but—you need to have someone who can care for you, too. I know that you can handle the physical danger! I doubt that anyone here would even try to take advantage of you like this.”

_Like this_ , Sylvain’s mind echoes. Humiliation floods his body, tingles in his fingertips.

“But,” Mercedes continues, “for an omega your age to spend a heat alone, without any precautions…” She licks her lips, and Sylvain _leaks_. “It can be emotionally damaging.”

Stubbornly, Sylvain says, “I take precautions.”

“ _Mint_ is not a precaution,” Mercedes replies, amusement in her voice. The rebuke stings, but her smile soothes it. “I don’t see any toys,” she says, gesturing to his room. “No plugs, no lube, no warming pillows. There’s not even a stockpile of water, Sylvain. Do you have any idea how easy it is to get dehydrated during a heat?”

“Yes,” Sylvain snaps, crossing his arms. He knows that Mercedes wants him to say more, but words are—hard, right now, and it’s becoming difficult to articulate.

“I won’t force you to do anything,” Mercedes says, catching his eye as she speaks, “and I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. But—I want to take care of you. Will you let me?”

“What?” Sylvain blinks. Then: “What?”

Mercedes smiles, and it’s sweet and warm and makes raspberries bloom against his tongue. His mouth waters. She says, “I’ll keep you safe, Sylvain.” His name feels like honey from her lips. “No strings attached, alright? No mating, no biting. I won’t do anything without your permission.”

Again, Sylvain’s thoughts stall, sticking and catching on Mercedes’ implication. “You’re an alpha,” he says dumbly.

Her smile only grows, showing white teeth and the softest sliver of tongue. “Yes,” she says, nodding. “And I’m not here to take advantage of you.”

Sylvain’s eyes narrow, even as his mouth falls open to scent the air. Of course she’s an alpha, he thinks—he’s been leaking through his trousers since she stepped inside his room, blankets damp beneath his thighs. “Hard to trust an alpha,” he says at last.

Mercedes nods her understanding. “Of course,” she says. “And if that is your answer, I won’t push you.”

Sylvain’s mouth is too wet, his lips too dry. He thinks of his previous heats, how painful and embarrassing they’d been—how he’d humped his pillows to completion, sullying his blankets and sheets and mattress with slick; how he’d sobbed against the bed with his ass in the air, fingers buried deep even as he’d begged for something, anything bigger. He thinks of how he’d resorted to the old, slim handle of his hairbrush last year, how at first he had felt relief until even it became too small, too unsatisfactory. He thinks of how, even now, on the eve of his full heat, his body aches for a knot.

He thinks, and he decides.

“Stay,” Sylvain says, voice hoarse. He can’t look at her when he says it.

“Are you sure?” Mercedes asks, serious. She steps closer, just enough to bring her hand lightly to Sylvain’s chin. She tips his head to catch her gaze. “It’s important to me that you mean it.”

Slowly, Sylvain nods. “Yes,” he says, the certainty settling in his gut. His skin prickles where Mercedes touches him; her eyes burn with intensity. “I want you to stay.”

The smile that splits Mercedes’s face is warm and bright, like sunlight against Sylvain’s feverish skin. “I won’t let you down,” she promises, and the sincerity rubs something raw in Sylvain’s chest. “Now. May I kiss you?”

Sylvain swallows before croaking, “Yes,” and allows her to tilt his head to meet her lips. She presses his knees tenderly apart, spreading his legs just enough to stand between them, and kisses Sylvain with a slow, sure passion that makes his toes curl. She guides Sylvain’s chin with a warm hand, commanding the kiss with soft lips and the leisurely slip of her tongue inside of Sylvain’s mouth. Sylvain parts his lips with a low moan, shoulders falling slack as he leans into Mercedes, and when she pulls back, it takes him several blinks to focus his eyesight again.

“You’re perfect,” Mercedes breathes against his open mouth, before pressing a single kiss to his nose. Her heat vanishes from Sylvain’s skin when she steps back, but before Sylvain can pull her closer, she turns towards the door. “I’m not leaving,” she says, already soothing the worry that builds in Sylvain’s chest. “I’m going to run to my room and grab some toys, alright? And some water, for the both of us.” She touches Sylvain’s cheek when he frowns. “I’ll be gone five minutes.”

_No_ , Sylvain wants to say, even as he forces himself to nod. “Alright,” he says. “Yeah.”

As she walks towards the door, she says, blithely, “Get ready for me, alright? I want you to be naked by the time I get back, Sylvain.”

Sylvain shivers at the easy dominance that threads her voice, thighs snapping together with the force of his arousal. “I,” he says, choking on his own spit. He coughs. “Yeah. Yes. Of course, I—yeah.”

She smiles over her shoulder and unlocks the door. “Five minutes,” she says, a reminder and a warning.

“Five minutes,” Sylvain echoes, a confirmation.

Five minutes.

* * *

Mercedes returns within six minutes, toys hidden in a satchel and two large glasses of water balanced in her hands. She announces herself when she enters, as though Sylvain hadn’t heard her footsteps, hadn’t _smelled_ her—but her greeting is welcome and warm, and it makes Sylvain shiver where he’s spread on the mattress.

He hears her breath catch when she sees him, chest against the bed and hips propped up and open on a pillow. His cunt leaks onto his thighs, bared against the chill of the air, and his cock twitches against the pillow where he ruts his hips in small, desperate circles. He hears Mercedes set the glasses on the desk, the subtle clinking of glass, before opening her satchel and placing three toys onto the foot of the bed. She steps into view with a sharp breath and an undeniable _pleased_ scent, and Sylvain melts against the bed when she blinks down at him.

“May I touch you?” she asks quietly. _Reverently_ , he thinks, overwhelmed.

“Yes,” he says. It comes out garbled, desperate. He pants with his cheek pressed to the blankets.

Her touch is light at first, fingertips cool where they trail his shoulders—they caress the top knob of his spine, circling each vertebrae as they whisper down his back, mapping each freckle and mole and scar. She palms his ass with a delicate hand, squeezing lightly before spanking, and even though it’s more surprising than painful, Sylvain feels his eyes roll back. He moans, rutting against the pillow beneath his hips, and feels himself drool onto the bed.

“You’re beautiful,” Mercedes says, smacking him again. Her fingers tease at his hole, feather-soft and playful, before slipping further down to grasp at his cunt. “Oh,” she says, low and rough. “You’re so wet for me, Sylvain.”

Sylvain whines, pressing back against her hand. She keeps her touch light, unassuming, parting his folds with two fingers and swiping at the slick that drools from his cunt. He pulses around her, clenching as if to draw her deeper, but she bypasses his hole for the hard length of his cock. Mercedes’s hand circles him, encompassing his little cock with five slender fingers—and she begins to stroke, slowly, giving him a moment to adjust.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, smoothing her other hand down the length of his thigh. Sylvain rolls his hips in time with her hand, fucking into her palm as she explores his body.

“Good,” he breathes, distracted enough by her hand on his cock that he can ignore the vast feeling of _emptiness_. Her thumb swipes over his crown, smearing the precum that leaks, and he twitches against the bed. The first orgasm is always the easiest, he knows—and he feels it climbing, a pressure that rises in his gut with each pinch of Mercedes’s fingers. “I’m good, I…”

“Oh, good boy,” says Mercedes, tugging harder at his cock. “Do you think you can come for me like this?”

Sylvain nods, moaning when Mercedes drags her nails up the back of his leg. The bright pain of those scratches sings through his body, and Mercedes must notice, because she does it again to his _other_ leg, and—he buries his face against the blankets, groaning and thrusting and drooling, and when he comes, it’s with a relieved shout.

Mercedes removes her hand from his cock once he’s calmed, bending to press a single kiss to his forehead. “Was that good for you, little one?”

Sylvain preens at _little one_ , at the warmth and pride in her voice. He sighs happily, drowsily against the bed and says, “Yes, mama.” Mercedes laughs sweetly, and it isn’t until Sylvain’s soul returns to his body that he realizes what he’s said. He jerks, pulling himself weakly up onto his elbows as he cries, “Fuck, I mean—”

Mercedes’s hand is soft and cool on his forehead, wiping sweat-slick hair from his skin. “So good for me,” she croons, unconcerned with Sylvain’s slip or the blush that rises hot to his cheeks. “Such a good boy, hm?”

Slowly, Sylvain settles back onto the bed, hiding his face in the sheets. “Yeah,” he murmurs, embarrassed even as his cunt throbs.

Mercedes runs her hand through his hair, scratching idly at his scalp as she settles next to him on the bed. Her thumb rubs softly at his cheek, soothing the flush of his skin. “You’re perfect, sweetheart,” she continues, content to let Sylvain ride through his embarrassment. “So good for mama.”

Sylvain groans, loud and long and wild. “Fuck,” he hisses, cock already leaking against the pillow again. His hips shift and raise, presenting his cunt to the room, and he _knows_ Mercedes can smell his shame, his desire—

“Do you want to sit on mama’s lap?” she asks, calm as ever. Her voice is kind and warm and Sylvain thinks, desperately, _yes_.

“Yes,” he says, an admission that pulls from his core.

“Yes, what?” Mercedes prompts, tilting his face to look at her.

Sylvain swallows, burning under her black-blown gaze. “Yes, please,” he breathes, licking his lips, and then—“Please, mama.”

She smiles, bright and sweet. “Oh, good boy,” she says, and taps his shoulder to give him permission to rise.

Rise he does, although slowly: his joints are heat-drunk, loose and uncooperative when he tries to put any pressure on them. His wrists are sore, his elbows buckling beneath him when he attempts to prop himself up; his knees pop when he pulls them beneath his torso. Mercedes is patient through it all, settling back against the wall with her feet dangling from the bed as she watches him.

Sylvain pulls himself into her lap with a whine, burying his face against her throat. He breathes her in, and she lets him: all chocolate and tender, sweet fruit, warm cream with the pies his mother baked when he was little. He shudders against her and feels tears in his eyes, and when she tilts his head with one finger curled under his chin, he blinks up at her through wet lashes.

“Are you alright?” Mercedes asks, brows knit in concern. Sylvain _aches_.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says without thinking. “Thank you, mama.”

She smiles. “You’re welcome, sweetie.” She cradles him like that, just like that, until his arousal becomes too difficult to ignore—until his exhaustion and embarrassment give way to _need_ , and his hips begin rutting against her plush thigh. “Is my baby hungry for more?”

Sylvain groans and nods, pressing his face harder against her throat. Her scent is so strong he can almost taste her, and with how he’s settled in her lap, he can feel the warning press of her cock beginning to peek from her sheath.

Mercedes readjusts him, laying him diagonally across her lap as she unbuttons her blouse and shrugs it from her shoulders. Her breasts tumble free, heavy and soft and warm to the touch—and Sylvain’s mouth waters with the urge to close his mouth around the swell of her perfect, pink nipples.

“Let mama take care of you,” Mercedes says, cupping one breast and offering it to Sylvain; her other hand grasps gently at his little cock. The weight of her tit spills through her fingers, milky white and smooth, and Sylvain moans when he sucks her nipple between his teeth. He’s content just to suckle, just to pleasure her, just to keep her in his mouth until her cock becomes fully erect above her cunt, but—he licks and he sucks and he whines, and the first trickle of milk against his tongue sends him cresting through a second orgasm without warning.

Sylvain’s eyes clench tight as he shudders against her, cunt throbbing and cock spurting into her hand. “ _Fuck_ ,” he whimpers, mouth falling from her breast to pant raggedly against her chest. She pets him through it, patient and kind, until at last his eyes peek open and he meets her gaze. “Fuck,” he repeats, eloquently. His thighs are wet with slick.

“That was perfect,” Mercedes tells him, cradling his head against her soft tits. Sylvain feels himself sink into them, warm and tender and raw. “Do you want another, baby?”

Quietly, Sylvain admits, “Yes, mama.”

Mercedes’s smile is as bright as the sun, blinding to look at. Its warmth settles on Sylvain’s skin and makes him glow. “Good boy,” she says, running her fingers through his damp hair. “Do you want a toy?”

Sylvain blinks and groans at the thought, suddenly very aware of how empty he is. “Yes,” he says, and turns to the collection of toys that Mercedes had brought with her. They’re all much the same, he notices, with one key difference between the three of them: size.

Mercedes follows his gaze and chuckles against him, breasts shaking with the movement. Sylvain licks his lips. “Which one do you want, baby?” Mercedes reaches for the smallest one, caressing the knot carved at the base. It’s a solid toy, made of dark, smooth wood and polished with scented oil. It’s about the size of the hairbrush handle he’d used, he thinks.

Before he can shame himself out of it, Sylvain blurts, “The big one. Please.”

Mercedes’s nails clack against the polished wood when she grabs it, trailing one manicured finger from the flared tip to the swollen base. “Are you sure you can handle this one?” she asks, half-teasing. She’s asking for his permission, Sylvain realizes.

He nods. “Yes,” he says, imbuing his voice with as much confidence as he can muster.

She accepts him at his word, nodding and grabbing the large toy from the line-up. “Good boy,” she says, reaching into her satchel for a small vial of oil. She pours half of the bottle directly onto the toy, stroking it loosely and coating it tip to root. Once she’s slicked the toy, she brings her hand to Sylvain’s open cunt and says, “I’m going to open you up, first, alright?”

Sylvain shifts in her lap, brows furrowed. “I’m plenty wet,” he says, impatient. “You don’t need to—”

“Just because you’re wet,” Mercedes says serenely, “doesn’t mean you’re ready for a knot. Trust me, baby.” She teases at his wet folds as she had before, exploring his fluttering cunt with patient fingers. She circles her two fingers once, twice, three times at his hole before slipping inside, slow and sure and easy.

Sylvain laughs in delight, half-relief: her fingers are nowhere near enough to satisfy him, but he’s full, cunt sucking greedily at Mercedes as she pumps her hand. She curls her fingers towards the front of his pelvis and he jerks against her, crying out with the sudden sensation, and then she _rubs_ , nudging that same spot over and over until he’s rutting against her and begging for more.

“Do you want a third?” Mercedes asks, teasing her ring finger at his entrance. When she removes the first two, his cunt makes an odd, desperate sucking noise, wet and open. She laughs and presses all three fingers inside, scissoring them when he shakes and whines against her, and when she adds her pinky, he’s halfway to tears.

“ _Please_ ,” he cries, slamming his hips against Mercedes’s hand as hard as she’ll let him. Her touch remains gentle, confident if undemanding. “Please, I’m ready, _mama_ —”

All four fingers slip from his hole with a loud squelching sound, and she wipes them against the twitching of his upper thigh. “Oh, sweet boy, look at you! So open for me.” When she at last nudges the toy against his cunt, he opens easily for her, the thick head of her dildo stretching him open with little effort.

It fills him in a way that he didn’t know was possible, spreading him and pressing so deep that he feels it in his stomach. Mercedes thrusts it gently, slowly, pulling it all the way out before pressing back in with aching slowness. He complains, moaning and fluttering around the thick toy, until she giggles and guides his face back to her breast to nurse.

“Let mama take care of you, baby,” she says, whining on an exhale when his teeth close around her nipple and begin to suck. Her thrusts grow faster, harder, still careful but much more demanding—and this time, she keeps her hands off of his cock, instead spreading his cheeks and watching the toy disappear into Sylvain’s sopping cunt. When he begins to shudder again, twitching on the edge of a third orgasm, mind fuzzy with arousal and need, she flicks her wrist and fucks him harder, teasing the bulbous root of the dildo against his hole. “Do you want me to knot you?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sylvain gasps against her tit, milk leaking from between his lips and smearing on his cheek. “Yes, goddess, _yes_ —”

There’s a moment of worry when the knot begins to press inside of him, so much bigger than the rest of the toy, and Sylvain thinks that it may not fit, but— _but_. It slips inside with an obscene, wet noise, sucked in by his greedy cunt, and when it settles inside of him, full and thick and perfect, he feels it rubbing insistently against that same spot that Mercedes had teased earlier. He rocks himself back onto it, trying to suck it deeper, to lock onto it and keep it firmly inside of him; Mercedes takes pity on him and nudges it as deep as it will go, palm flat against the flared base. Sylvain feels himself lock and shudder and _come_ , a sensation so totally different than the previous two orgasms that, at first, he doesn’t recognize it: he gasps and shakes, body alight with nerves, fire at his fingertips and toes and the tips of his ears—and his cock doesn’t spurt, doesn’t spill, just leaks and leaks and leaks.

He blinks his eyes back into focus, shaking his head against the dark fog at the edge of his vision. “What,” he croaks. He realizes when Mercedes touches his face that he’s been crying.

“Sweet boy,” she murmurs, stroking her thumb across his damp cheek. “That was perfect. You were beautiful, baby.”

Sylvain groans, shifting onto his back and ignoring the way that Mercedes’ knees press against his spine. “Fuck,” he says.

When Mercedes readjusts herself on the bed, Sylvain feels her cock brush against his side—and when he looks over, he sees it tenting her skirts. The toy is still nestled inside of him, knot locked, but he thinks— _oh_ , would he like to feel the real thing.

“How long will this—stay inside of me?” he asks.

Mercedes nudges it with two knuckles, watching it shift inside of him, the way his cunt clenches tightly around it. When she tugs gently, it begins to slip. “I could take it out now,” she says, glancing back up at him. “But I’d thought you’d want to leave it in longer.”

Sylvain shakes his head. “You haven’t gotten off,” he says, nodding his head at her erection. “I can’t—I want…I.” He takes a deep breath. “I want you to fuck me.”

Mercedes inhales on a sharp breath, pursing her lips even as her cock twitches under her skirts. “Sylvain,” she starts, biting her lip. It’s the first moment of weakness Sylvain has seen from her, and something inside of him swells. “I’m not sure—”

“You’re not taking advantage,” Sylvain says, looking earnestly up at her. “I know that you said you wouldn’t do it, but—I want it. I _want_ you to fuck me, Mercedes.” A pause, and then: “Please?”

Mercedes is silent for a long moment, studying his face as she brushes hair back from his forehead. At last, she nods. “I’ll do it,” she says, slowly. “Oh, Sylvain—of course I’ll do it, baby. _But_ —”

“But?”

“We’ll be talking about this in the morning,” she says seriously, catching Sylvain’s chin between her fingers. “Promise me, Sylvain.”

Sylvain pouts, but does as she asks. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Very good.” She eases him from her lap with a grunt, stretching her legs and massaging feeling back into her ankles. “Let me remove this first, alright?” She taps the plug with two nails, and Sylvain hisses at the feeling.

“Yeah, alright,” he says, shivering and shuddering when she tugs the toy slowly from his hole. Its absence leaves him aching and wild, the desire previously muted by the toy’s knot surging back up to burn in his belly. His cunt _gapes_ , clenching around nothing, and when Mercedes teases at him with three fingers, he groans.

“I suppose you’re plenty stretched already,” she says, teasing.

Sylvain nods fiercely. “Yeah, think so.”

Mercedes slips from the bed with a small smile, feeling for the buttons at the waist of her skirts. Her clothes fall to the ground in a heap with a few careful flicks of her fingers, leaving her bared to Sylvain: breasts heavy on her chest, nipples swollen and dark where Sylvain had teased them with his teeth and tongue—and her cock, just a bit further down, jutting from thick, blond curls. It’s comparable in size to the toy they’d used, but it’s _real_ , flushed red and hot and leaking precum from the crown.

“It’s perfect,” Sylvain blurts, feeling his fingers twitch against the blankets. “Holy shit.”

Mercedes laughs, brushing her hair out of her face as she climbs back onto the bed. She grasps her cock with one slender hand as though testing the weight of it, biting her lip when she squeezes and palms the head. Her thighs are wet, too—not as wet as an omega’s, Sylvain thinks dazedly, but they’re _wet_ , damp with her arousal. _You did that_ , he thinks to himself, staring with wide eyes and an open mouth.

“It’s rude to stare,” Mercedes says, leaning over him. She lifts Sylvain’s legs to bend over her shoulders, pressing his thighs back against his chest and baring his fluttering cunt to her.

Sylvain shivers against her grip, unsure of where to put his hands. At last, he curls them into the sheets for better purchase, already slipping on the blankets with the sweat that pours from his body. “Sorry,” he says.

Mercedes shakes her head with a small smile. “Don’t worry about it, baby.” She leans to press a single kiss against his forehead, another against his nose: and when his eyes flutter closed, she kisses his eyelids, too. “Are you ready for me?”

“Yes,” Sylvain says truthfully, urgently.

“Good boy.” Mercedes grasps her cock and lines it up with Sylvain’s cunt, slipping twice against his slick folds before catching and pressing _in_.

Mercedes eases into him with a long, slow press; her eyes are trained on where their bodies meet, where her cock spears him open. His body accepts her easily, desperately, clenching around her and pulsing when she begins to roll her hips. Sylvain’s back arches from the bed with each thrust, his spent cock leaking against his belly as though it might come again; he thinks that, with Mercie’s persuasion, it may.

She keeps her thrusts gentle and deep as she presses Sylvain’s legs open. He shudders against it, eyes shut tight, but each time he twitches in her hold, trying to shut his legs, she spreads them wider, until his knees bump against his chest and his feet hang limply in the air. “I need to see you,” she says, calm and sweet. Sylvain preens at her voice, head tipped back against the mattress. “Trust me, baby. I’ll give you what you need, alright?”

Sylvain swallows once, twice, mouth open as he tries to find his voice. “Yes,” he gasps, finally, hands tangling in the sheets.

He feels the swell of her knot grow with each thrust, pressing almostalmostalmost against his cunt without slipping in. Mercedes fucks him smoothly, sweetly, breathing short but not heavy—until he squeezes around her in earnest, and she gasps with a low moan. “ _Oh_ ,” she says, head bowed as she continues to fuck him. “Oh, baby—Sylvain, I—”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Sylvain agrees. A fourth orgasm rises in his belly, coiling tightly in his gut, and his cock is only half-hard but his cunt _gushes_ , quivering just on the edge of climax.

Mercedes’s thrusts grow rapid, ragged, rhythm failing as she picks up her pace. When Sylvain raises his head to look, he sees her knot swollen full at the base of her cock, dark and flushed and huge. “Baby,” Mercedes pants, tongue slipping between her lips, “baby, do you want mama to knot you? Do you?”

Sylvain groans, head falling back against the mattress as he leans into her thrusts. “Yes,” he begs, “yes, yes, mama, I want— _please_ —”

“Baby—” Mercedes gasps, thrusts gaining force until the knot slips messily inside of Sylvain’s cunt. This time, Sylvain feels his cunt shudder and throb and _lock_ , latching onto Mercedes’s cock and milking her to orgasm. She whines above him, fingers twitching against his thighs, and he swears he can feel her seed where it spurts inside of him, settling deep inside of his womb.

Sylvain slips into his fourth and final orgasm with a stuttered wail, cock drooling weakly against his belly as he trembles on the bed. His eyes roll back, unseeing, and it isn’t until several heartbeats later that he realizes that Mercedes has rolled them onto their sides.

She tucks Sylvain’s head under her chin, letting him curl around her as they come down. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

It takes Sylvain a moment to find his voice, lost somewhere in the wreckage of his climax. “Good,” he says at last, voice ruined.

“Good,” Mercedes says, scratching her nails lightly down his back. It soothes him, more than the cock that’s buried inside of him—it grounds him, brings him back into his body. “Me, too.”

Sleep edges at the corners of his vision, blurry and inevitable. Sylvain blinks against it, nestling closer to Mercedes and pillowing his face against her tits. He bites lightly at her, just beneath her collarbone, and worries the skin until she’s giggling against him.

“Stop that,” she says, even as she pulls him closer. She places a kiss on top of his head. “You should get some sleep, Sylvain.”

Already, Sylvain feels himself slipping. “’S _baby_ to you,” he slurs, mouthing wetly at her throat.

He doesn’t see her smile, but he does feel it—the curve of her lips against his hair. “I know, baby,” she says softly. “Get some sleep, alright? I’ll be here in the morning.”

“Mm,” Sylvain grunts, and sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed please consider leaving a comment 💕
> 
> i have a [twitter](https://twitter.com/nishtabel)!


End file.
